


like a hinge, like a wing

by redbrunja



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-16 13:30:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13054965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/pseuds/redbrunja
Summary: Gaby had wonderfully steady hands.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MollokoPlus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollokoPlus/gifts).



Gaby had wonderfully steady hands.

He hadn't asked for her help. She'd watched him remove the lampshades and bring two lamps over to the tiny writing desk provided by the hotel and then struggle to get his tools and the lamp stands and the UNCLE-provided communicator all on the desktop. Then, without a word, she'd turned up the radio and come over, plucking the one lamp off the desk and angling it expertly.

She followed his hands, tilting the light so that it shone on exactly what he was working on.

" _Spasibo_ ," he said.

Gaby huffed and the light didn't waver at all. "It's not hard," she said dismissively. "I used to do this for my father."

Illya made a sound low in his throat and kept his eyes fixed on his work. He was trying to miniaturize their communicators without sacrificing range; he'd been having limited success.

"That's how I learned how to fix cars," Gaby continued. "Watching him."

He wanted to say something about how her father must have been proud of her, having a beautiful daughter who followed him into his trade. Prouder still of the woman who escaped East Germany. But he had the right to say none of that, and those words would be unwanted and disbelieved coming from an officer of the KGB. Instead Illya narrated what he was attempting. He was lacking in some of the technical vocabulary (in both English and German) but Gaby caught on quickly though - she'd rewired cars before and her understanding of circuitry gave her the background needed for this task.

The evening was pleasanter than Illya deserved; quiet, companionable. Occasionally Gaby would abruptly abandon him, throwing his work into shadow just to change the radio if she didn't like the song, or to dance around the room when she did.

It was during one of those periods of dancing, Gaby moving about the room as if her blood was music, Illya's hands still while he watched her through his eyelashes, that Solo sauntered in.

"This is not your hotel room, Cowboy," Illya said. He and Gaby were on support; Solo wasn't supposed to make contact with them unless the situation was dire.

"The situation is dire," Solo said, as if he had read Illya's mind. Illya narrowed his eyes at the man.

Solo reclined on the couch.

Gaby twisted to look at him and then laughed at his dramatic posture, and kept dancing.

"I am beginning to think we have been fed bad information," he informed the hotel walls, since Gaby didn't appear to be paying him any attention and Illya _certainly_ wasn't. "There is nothing in our mark's head but goshawk pedigrees and boring sex positions. I am about to perish of boredom."

The song ended, Gaby struck and held a pose for a brief second and walked over to hold the light for Illya again.

"Espionage takes discipline and patience, Cowboy," Illya informed him.

"You know, Peril," Solo said, straightening up and then stopped, staring at Illya's hands. " _What_ are you doing with my tools?"

"Not your tools any longer," Illya turned his back on Solo and focused on his work. "They have been requisitioned."

At the Vinciguerra warehouse, after Solo had tripped the alarm, Illya had shoved Solo's thieving kit into his inner jacket pocket, and then forgotten the tools until, after the thumping and moaning from upstairs had subsided and Gaby had crawled back into bed, he'd gone to shower off the briny residue from the harbor. When he'd undressed, he'd found the tools. He'd intended to return them, but between the danger they were sending Gaby into, and then his orders to kill Solo and retrieve the tape, and then the sudden formation of UNCLE, the tools had remained, forgotten, in his case. By the time they'd flown into Istanbul, Solo had a brand-new, identical lock-picking set. Illya had been so disgusted with the carelessness and lack of consequence - to lose such a vital piece of equipment and suffer no repercussions - that he hadn't bothered to return the tools. Not when they - with a few modifications of course - ended up being so very useful for maintaining and modifying the surveillance equipment that Illya took _impeccable_ care of.

"WHAT did you DO to my tools, you soviet thief?" Solo accused, staring at the modified tools in horror.

Illya surged to his feet, knocking his chair back.

 

* * *

 

"I would never inconvenience a lady - except upon request - " Solo started, "but I cannot help but notice that the bed is rather large for a single occupant."

Illya clenched his fists, his already blooded knuckles stinging.

Gaby shot Solo a withering look over the brim of her glass, legs already tucked under the covers.

"You got us thrown out of our hotel," Gaby said, shortly, "I should make you sleep in the alley outside."

Illya shot Solo a smug, pleased look.

"I hope you _both_ enjoy your night on the floor," Gaby continued and Illya felt his smile drop away.

"I-" he started and then was silenced at Gaby's furious expression.

He dropped his gaze, lay down on the floor. He took a tiny bit of pleasure in the fact that he lay directly next to the bed, while Solo was right next to the door. Maybe a maid would come in early and open the door right into Solo's side, he thought pettily.

Gaby knocked back the rest of her drink, slammed the glass down on the bedside table, slapped the lightswitch off, plunging the room into darkness.

"Gaby, really? Not even a pillow?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At some point, early in this mission, Solo was like, "I cannot believe I am going to fuck this mark." Illya: "You don't... have to..." Solo: "No, I'm gonna."


	2. Chapter 2

"Still no response," the radio operator said.

Illya grabbed a grease pencil, leaned over the map.

"Search parties will begin here," he marked the map, "one will proceed west along this ridge, then search downhill. One team will go north, and I will lead a team through this ravine."

The ravine was most likely where Gaby would be found. Still, in case she had been mistaken, in case the helicopter had traveled further after the radio had cut out - he wasn't going to risk Gaby freezing, unfound, because he was too narrow with the initial search parameters.

There was a long pause.

Illya looked away from that map, at Lieutenant Major Mäkinen.

"Of course," Mäkinen said, a beat too late. "I will send men out at first light - or when the storm abates." _Whichever is later_ , the unspoken addendum. A smile tugged at Mäkinen's mouth. He had been smiling at Illya for the past week, obsequious, as if Illya were too thick to the hatred in his eyes. Illya straightened to his full height, glared at the man.

"Send them now," Illya said.

"If only I could, comrade," Mäkinen's eyes were bright. "But it's too dangerous to send more soldiers out, in this weather." He gestured at the windows, the snow that beat against the glass and obscured the world outside.

Illya curled his hands into a fists.

"I understand your concern for Miss Teller-" Mäkinen said.

"Agent Teller," Illya snapped.

"Excuse me, _Agent_ Teller," Mäkinen drawled. He couldn't hide his pleasure at being able to refuse Illya. "But if she isn't dead already, she will be perfectly fine waiting until morning. If you so desperately require a bedwarmer tonight, I'm happy to send someone to your quarters."

Illya punched him in the face. Mäkinen's nose broke and when his hands went to his face, Illya slugged him in the solar plexus. The man went down like he was made of matchsticks.

The radio operator stared at Illya, frozen, silent.

Illya ignored him as he turned on his heel, strode out of the room.

Mäkinen had given Illya and Gaby a tour of the facility on the day they arrived. Illya knew where the cold-weather gear was stored, where the vehicles were kept. Illya was Russia's best; he knew how to rescue Gaby from the teeth of General Winter.

 

* * *

 

This was supposed to have been a diplomatic mission.

While Solo was in Vienna for reasons Illya was not party to, he and Gaby were sent to Helsinki and then to an army base in northern Finland.

Nominally, they were there to observe Finnish army policies and procedures. Practically, they were there to begin recruiting contacts, making connections, the early intelligence work that - months, _years_ \- later could yield fruit. This was work Illya was, by nature and nationality, very ill suited to. Gaby took to it like a duck to water.

Illya was shadowed by Mäkinen, who was outwardly so, so helpful while failing to hide the fact that he wouldn't piss on Illya if he were on fire.

Gaby bewitched every man she encountered, from the generals and scientists they met in Helskini, to the businessmen who shared their train compartment heading north, to Sergeant Niemi and Corporal Laine.

Niemi and Laine were at Gaby's side every moment they could manage. They were mechanics retrofitting Finnish helicopters and Gaby was delighted to talk mechanics and food and mechanics and complain about the cold and talk mechanics. When it was time for a test flight, they invited Gaby, and she agreed instantaneously.

While Illya waited, useless, back at the base, a storm blew in from the west and knocked them from the sky.

Illya slowed his snowmobile, braked. The wind drove hard pellets of snow into his face and chest. When he pulled of his mittens to work the radio.

"Teller, can you hear me?" he asked in German. "Gaby, do you copy?"

He methodically clicked through the different channels - general ones, then UNCLE-specific channel D - repeating his message. Nothing but the hiss of static. Just like the last time he checked, and the time before that.

He drove another 5 klicks and then checked again. Silence, static and then, on channel D–

" _Illya?"_

His breath caught in his throat.

"Yes, it's me, I'm here," he managed.

She gave him her coordinates and Illya raced towards her, pressing the snowmobile for every scrap of speed he can get.

 

* * *

 

Every shadow was Gaby, his heart leaping into his throat and then falling to the bottom of his stomach like a cold stone, until it finally _was_ her, a small figure, leaning forward against the weight of what she was dragging.

She looked up at the sound of his snowmobile's engine, and then he was pulling up before her, dismounting, and she threw herself into his arms, hugging him tightly, her feet barely brushing the snow. Over her head he saw Corporal Laine, supine on a sheet of metal, a rope rigged to make a sled.

He bent to let her get her feet under her. Gaby stepped back, reached inside her pocket. She pulled out the UNCLE communicator he'd been working on. It looks like she's stripped some components from the helicopter and used them to amplify the signal.

"Does this count as field testing?" she asked and Illya stared at her in amazement. She was so wonderfully clever and so wonderfully _alive._

 

* * *

 

The helicopter crash had killed the pilot, Sergeant Niemi, and traumatically amputated Corporal Laine's leg. Gaby had "only been knocked around a bit." When she'd woken up, it was to find the communications fried and the 'copter starting to smoke. She'd put a tourniquet around Laine's thigh before he bled out and grabbed some repair parts out of the back compartment before the helicopter was engulfed in flames. She'd amplified Illya's communicator, but, not trusting that it was working, she'd headed to the base, dragging Laine behind her.

She told him all this as Illya dug a snow cave, trying to listen as if she were dictating a mission report. She'd almost died.

Illya dragged Laine up into the snow cave, Gaby crawling behind. He covered most of the entrance, minus a small slit for air, while Gaby got Laine settled on the pallet made of tarp and then a blanket. She removed her soaked trousers and jacket, stripping down to her silk underthings, and curled around Laine's chest. Illya piled the blankets and clothing on top of them both, stripped down to his undergarments as well, and took the other side. His back was to the snow wall, Laine in the middle, and Gaby with her back to the portable heater. Everyone's teeth chattered. Tucked under the snow, the wind was a low hiss. The heater gave dim, reddish light.

"Miss Teller, when I imagined a _menage a trois,_ your Russian shadow was not the third person I had in mind," Laine said through the rattle of his teeth.

"When I imagined a _menage a tois_ , you weren't there at all," Gaby retorted.

"Oh?" Laine inquired. "I think you should tell me about this - you know, to take my mind off the pain."

Gaby snorted. "Well, I'm at my apartment, and there is me..."

"Yes?" Laine asked.

Illya clenched his teeth together tightly.

"....And my radiator and every blanket I own."

Laine laughed, and then moaned. "That's the dream," he agreed.

Under the blankets, Gaby reached out and found Illya's hand. She squeezed tightly. Her fingers felt hot, and Illya was concerned she was running a fever until he realized that his fingers were just so cold that she felt warm in contract. But Gaby didn't pull her hand away.

 

* * *

 

"Mr. Kuryakin, would you join me in my office?" Waverly requested.

Illya rose, couldn't help but look back at Gaby before stepping into Waverly's office.

Gaby shrugged at him, cradled her cup of coffee closer. Since they'd returned from Finland, she had been seeking warmth wherever she could find it. She was wearing one of his black turtlenecks as a dress, black leggings, thick boots, and a heavy red coat. Illya had spent most of the day wanting to tuck a blanket around her and pull an ushanka down over her head and ears.

"Tea?" Waverly asked, gesturing to the set, teapot steaming.

"Yes, thank you," Illya said after a beat. He poured himself a cup, realizing that Waverly had a pot of jam available, as well as the more typically English milk and sugar. He added a small touch of jam to his tea, carefully sat down in front of Waverly's desk.

"I have had such a frustrating morning," he began, and Illya braced himself. "Can you believe that the Finnish army almost lost my best agent and then complained about you requisitioning the materials to rescue her?"

Illya waited for the barb. "No, sir?" he replies after a moment.

Waverly sips his tea. "Shockingly rude, in my opinion."

There was a long pause.

" You also retrieved that that Finnish Corporal, isn't that correct?" Waverly asked.

"Gaby saved him," Illya clarified. "She was already transporting Corporal Laine back to the base when I reached them."

Illya had spent several sleepless hours wondering if she would have made it, if he hadn't found her. Gaby was strong. But the storm, the distance, dragging a fully grown man? He couldn't completely manage the image from his mind: Gaby struggling through the snow, falling, unable to get back to her feet, snow blowing over and then slowly burying her slight form.

"I see," Waverly said. He stared at Illya levelly. "I've done my share of high altitude work. It takes skill and determination. A mountain rescue is not an easy thing to undertake alone."

Illya shifted. What had Waverly expected him to have done, left Gaby to freeze to death?

 "I'm pleased you were there, Kuryakin, and pleased you both made it back unharmed."

Whatever Waverly was trying to determine, he seemed to have settled it. He leaned back in his chair, stirred his tea. "That little adventure could have gone quite badly, couldn't it? Now, the reason I called you in here -

Illya held himself still.

"I have to leave for Vienna unexpectedly and will not be able to attend the ballet this evening," Waverly pulled two tickets out of his inner jacket pocket and slid across his desk. "I was hoping you could escort Ms. Teller."

Illya almost dropped his teacup in shock.

"O-of course, sir," he answered.

"Capital," Waverly continued. "I realize some people view the ballet as a chance to show off their fashion sensibilities - and you and Solo so love this decade's hemlines - but I won't have Gaby getting chilled. It might not be Finland, or Russia, but December in London isn't balmy by any metric."

"Yes, sir," Illya repeated.

"Good. You're dismissed, Kuryakin," Waverly finished, a small smile curling the corner of his mouth up.

* * *

 

Gaby watched _Paquita_ wrapped in a luxurious fur coat, wearing a pair of diamond earrings that Solo had stolen from a duchess and then gifted to her. Her cheeks were pink pleasure and her dark, shining eyes fixed on the stage.

She looked like czarina and Illya could barely look away from her.


	3. Chapter 3

Illya pushed open the hotel door and stepped inside.

Despite the late hour, the bedside lamp was on, filling the room with warm light.

The covers on the large bed had been kicked to the floor, allowing Illya to see every centimeter of the naked figure that reclined on the bed, sun-bronzed skin and dark, tousled hair.

"Cowboy," Illya said severely. "What are you doing in my bed?"

Solo opened his eyes, the action visibly taking effort.

Illya knelt by the bed. Solo's pupils were pin-pricks, even in the low light. Illya adjusted his attribution of Solo's lassitude to something... manufactured, and not simple indolence. He put his fingers against Solo's wrist, and noticed that ring of bruises that circled both of them. Solo's pulse was slow, but even and strong.

"This is where our lovely Gaby put me," Solo answered dreamily. "She has even better timing than you, Peril." He made a little humming sound. "Steady hands, too."

That was worrying.

Illya stepped to the bathroom, knocked, one hand already on the doorknob.

"Gaby?" he called, bracing to shove his shoulder into the door.

"Illya? Don't come in!"

He held himself back.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

There was a long pause.

" _No_ ," Gaby said firmly. "But I could use your help."

He tried to doorknob - locked.

"Illya," she said, "it's not as bad as it looks."

A sentence to make a man's heart turn to ice.

"Do you promise to be calm?"

"Yes," Illya lied.

Gaby clicked open the lock and Illya slowly pushed the door open.

She held a towel to her chest, blood splattered across her face, her neck, her hands. There was a deep slash across her left bicep that was still dripping blood down her arm and onto the floor. There was a bloody combat knife on one side of the sink and on the other, the first aid kit was open, dotted with bloody fingerprints. She had been getting ready to give herself stitches.

He met her eyes. There was a half-wild look in them.

She needed him to be calm. So he would be. He forced his hands steady.

"You need stitches," he said, and went to wash in hands in the bathroom, so he wouldn't have to lean past her, crowd her against the mirror.

She sat on the sink while he worked, the towel pressed against her breasts, wearing only a pair of knickers otherwise. Her blood-stained clothes were discarded in the corner. In the mirror, he could see the long, golden line of her back, and tried not notice the grace of it.

Gaby set her teeth but couldn't bite back the sound she made when the needle first pierced her skin. Illya was quick, making tiny, tight stitches to close the gash across her arm. It was a knife wound and he knew without asking that the man who had given it to her was dead.

After he bandaged her arm, he took another towel, dampened it, and carefully cleaned her face. She closed her eyes and tilted her face up. Illya smoothed away the blood from the curve of her cheek, her jaw, gently moving the wet cloth along the column of her throat. Gaby let the towel she'd been holding slip from her hand. For a second it pooled in her lap and then slid to the floor, leaving her on the bathroom counter in just her underthings.

Illya wiped down her torso, so gentle as the towel moved over her pale brown nipples. He cleaned her arms and worked carefully on her hands. There was blood under her nails, in her cuticle beds. He'd need to take a scrub brush to her fingers to get them clean, and he wouldn't hurt her any more tonight.

"There," Illya said, through a dry mouth. "Done."

He was hard.

Gaby opened her eyes, looked him up and down.

Illya braced himself for the slap, shame crawling through his veins. He deserved it, for lusting after Gaby when she was vulnerable, when she had trusted him to help her.

She cupped his face, fingers gentle. He flinched in surprise and then turned his cheek into her palm.

"Illya," she said, low. Her eyes were dark and he was lost.

He lowered his head, pressed his lips carefully to hers. She made a pleased sound, nipped at his bottom lip. Illya carefully placed his hands on her hips, his thumbs gently stroking her soft, soft skin. His fingers were trembling again.

Gaby stretched out her right leg, her thigh brushing against his side. She used her toe to turn the lock, the click loud in the tiny room. Then she wrapped both legs around Illya's waist, pulling him closer.


	4. Chapter 4

Illya crossed Red Square, just after five o'clock in the evening.

He walked straight to the door of GUM, ignoring the long line of people waiting. The worker at the door took one look at his uniform and let him right inside.

Illya ignored a twinge of guilt; he didn't have time to waste. He pretended to browse, slowly walking towards the aisle of women's accessories. He inspected the women's gloves. Decent quality. Made in Italy. Exorbitantly expensive

He bought them, left the store, caught a street car.

He departed a half dozen blocks later, walked to the coffee shop on the corner and inside.

His immediately found his mama. She rose, a tall, proud woman with hair that was still the same gold as his own.

He reach out to her hand, squeezed tightly, and kissed her on each check.

"Hello, mama," he said, voice rough.

"My boy," Marya said. She cupped his chin, turned his face from side to side. "You look well."

Illya brought them both coffee and yeasty rolls. They had a perfect conversation - the conversation any man would have after not seeing his mother for several years, a conversation that said absolutely nothing at all, a conversation safe to have in a crowded coffeehouse.

Marya cupped her coffee in her hands, stared at Illya. She was clearly memorizing what he looked like and Illya hoped that what she saw didn't disappoint her.

When the hour grew late, he insisted on walking her to her flat. As soon as they stepped outside, he handed her a pair of gloves - not the pair he had just bought.

She took them, her eyes widening when she felt the fabric. The softest cashmere, expertly knitted. A neighbor had made them for Illya, as payment for fixing her sink when the landlord hadn't returned her calls. He'd been able to describe his mother's long, slender fingers, and the gloves fit perfectly.

"I bought them at the GUR," he said.

"Of course," his mother answered.

The snow crunched under their boots, and both of them knew he was lying.

His mother was tall, only a little shorter than he was, and their pace through the streets and the noise of traffic was a fairly reliable foil for ears.

They reached a bridge.

Marya paused, leaned against the railing, looked out at the street lamps reflecting on the water. The rivers hadn't yet frozen over.

"I was in Paris, for work," he told her, pulling a rolled-up, French copy of Vogue of his jacket pocket.

The magazine had been a slight risk - it was contraband, of course, but a common, mild one. His mama would be in little danger, and after she had looked through it to her satisfaction, she could sell it to a neighbor. He hadn't even bothered to hide it, tossing it in between his turtlenecks and his slacks.

His father used to bring fashion magazines home. Illya had many sweet memories of sitting by the fire with his mother, looking through the bright, glossy pages. His mother would tell him which dresses she liked best and how they should have been to accessorized, and then she'd ask him his opinions.

Marya smiled at the magazine, caught his serious expression, and then flipped through it, stopping when she saw the two photographs that he'd slipped into the pages. Those Illya had hidden carefully in the lining of his suitcase, until this morning when he'd slipped them out and then hidden them away in the magazine.

He hadn't been certain he was going to show them to his mother until - he still was a touch uncertain.

There was a headshot of Gaby, stolen from her UNCLE personnel file. There were holes in the upper right corner where he'd removed the staple. She was posed against a white background, unsmiling, a seriously look in her dark eyes.

The second was candid. Solo had stolen his camera and snapped a picture of them during breakfast at an outdoor cafe. Gaby was looking at the camera, very unimpressed, while Illya looked across the street, sunglasses hiding his eyes. The sunlight was bright, the white linen of the table cloth almost blinding. He could almost feel the warmth of that day.

"Her name is Gabriela Teller," he said, his shoulder against his mother's, his voice pitched for her ears only. "She's East German. We met-" he searched for an answer that wasn't too dangerous. "Rome," he decided. That was where he'd learned how brave and clever she was. That made a better beginning that chasing her through the streets of East Berlin or the boutique in West Berlin. "She's a British agent. She's their best. She's-"

His mother closed the magazine, nodded. Her lips were pressed tightly together and her eyes looked red.

Illya had done something wrong.

He gripped the stone railing. "Mama, I'm sorry-"

"No," Marya said. "There is no need for that." She still wasn't looking at him. "Does she love you?"

Illya's heart was in his throat.

"I hope so," he said softly.

His mother turned to look at him.

"You love her," she stated.

"Very much," Illya answered through a dry mouth.

His mother nodded once, decisively, a sternness he remembered from his adolescence coming over her face. She pulled off her gloves and then pulled off her wedding ring. The wedding ring she had refused to sell, even when everything else had been bartered away, and they both had empty, aching bellies.

"No," Illya said. "Mama, I can't-"

"You will," she said in a tone that brooked no argument. "My daughter-in-law deserves it."

Illya still hesitated.

"If you don't take it I'll throw it in the river," she told him and Illya clapped his hands around hers before she could follow through on that threat.

Marya smiled, watched as Illya carefully tucked the ring away.

She reach up, cupped his face in her hands.

"Oh, my son, are you happy?" she asked.

"Yes, mama," he told her. Her smiled trembled on the edge of sorrow and joy.

"That is everything I could ask for," she told him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is what I imagined the ring to look like.](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/415386765624072550/)


	5. Chapter 5

"Sign here and here, and you're done," the clerk said in a bored tone.

Gaby signed her name in a clear hand. Illya almost dropped the pen, scratched his name in Cyrillic and then in English, unable to look away from Gaby Teller, his wife, standing next to him with pink cheeks and a smile on her face.

She wore a white sheath dress. Amongst the doldrums of the registry office, she was radiant.

Illya dropped the pen, reached for her. She threw her arms around his shoulders and he lifted her up. Her mouth was so sweet against his. They kissed until he was breathless and then he slowly lowered her back down. She slid her hands down his chest, over the navy wool of his suit.

Solo and Waverly, as well as a few interested observers, clapped.

Solo had complained that his suit was horribly plain for his wedding day but Illya had ignored him. It was the most expensive thing he'd ever bought for himself. But he wanted to look handsome for Gaby, for his bride, for his wedding day. He thought he'd managed that. He wondered if Gaby could feel this thumping of his heart under her palm.

She smiled up at him.

Grains of uncooked rice stuck his shoulders. Solo, unable resist giving their wedding at least one wasteful, capitalist spectacle. He had been _so_ grieved when they'd decided to marry at the registry office

Gaby laughed at Solo's antics but barely looked away from Illya.

Waverly cleared his throat and went go sign as a witness. Solo leaned over, kissed Gaby on the cheek, clapped Illya's shoulder, and followed.

Gaby gave his tie a gentle tug, sending a dizzyingly pulse of heat through his body, and then held up her left hand and wiggled her fingers.

Illya hurriedly got the rings out of his pocket.

His mother's ring fit perfectly onto her finger. He looked down at her hand, cupped in his. She squeezed his fingers. They shared a smile. Then Gaby took his wedding ring, and slid it onto his left ring finger with her wonderfully steady hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to MilkshakeKate for the last minute beta!


End file.
